Shattered

Chapter 2: Broken

Trigger warning: This chapter contains mention of PTSD and suicide ideation

Violet's POV:

"They've promised that dreams can come true- but forget to mention that nightmares are dreams, too." – Oscar Wilde

I'd never felt more tired in my life. I was awake. I was pretty sure I was awake, but I could not get my eyes open. It wasn't even like a weight was holding the lids down, I just couldn't get the energy or strength to do it. The same was true of my muscles. I couldn't move at all. Not anything. Not even a finger.

Maybe this was it. Maybe I was actually dead.

Finally.

That thought made me find the strength to smile just a little bit.

"Violet?" A soft voice asked.

My smile faded. It took me a minute but I finally got my eyes open. It was so blurry, I couldn't see a thing. I blinked slowly, the room coming into more focus but not totally. Shouldn't I not need glasses or contacts when dead?

"Violet? Can you hear me?"

I turned my head and saw a nurse standing next to me. A nurse. It was then I looked around with more awareness. There was a constant beeping, and I was in a room that was too white, a vase of flowers next to me on a small table, an IV in my hand... I glanced down and realized I was in a hospital bed.

No. I was still here. I was still alive. How was that possible? I did everything. I did everything to make sure I succeeded. How could I have failed at this, too?

I was so overwhelmed I started crying. The nurse tried to soothe me. She tried to tell me it was okay. I was okay. I was safe. But she didn't understand. I didn't want to be safe. I didn't want to be okay.

I wanted to be dead.

The bitterness that I woke up and wasn't dead stuck with me. It stuck with me through all the days I was forced to stay in the ICU, and then in the behavioral hospital until I was 'stable'. I wasn't sad, I was pissed. I was pissed that even with the careful calculations to see how much I needed so I could finally be free, I still somehow ended up sitting in that goddamn hospital, in yet another therapy session, wondering how someone's luck could be that bad. I couldn't even remember what happened the night I tried to find my freedom on that cliff. I only knew whoever took it on themselves to 'help' me could go to hell. All they did was delay the inevitable.

As much as I could've stewed in my frustration and anger, I wanted out of the behavioral hospital and I was getting out. Lying and bullshitting were my specialty anyway, but they were easy to manipulate. It was all about choosing the right words, crying at just the right moment, finding a balance of conveying I wanted to be better but still struggled and would continue working through it. They made me talk to more than one psychiatrist, but it didn't matter. People were easy to read, people were easy to distract, and I was good at picking up on what pushed people's buttons.

The real challenge was a week later as I stood in front of my older friend, Jen, outside my apartment. Her grey hairs had increased in her blonde hair from the last time I saw her, making her even more beautiful. She wasn't as easy to hide things from. She knew me well enough to know my bullshitting. With her, I had to be more careful.

I was very particular about the way I answered her questions. She scrutinized my every word, my every nervous wring of the hands and sleeve-tugging that I had to time just right. It was obvious she couldn't decide whether or not to believe I was okay and ready to be alone but she finally nodded and pulled me into a hug.